


Give the Lie

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, Unicorns, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out Dean was wrong when he said there was no such thing as unicorns. It also turns out that when a unicorn steals your memories, you have to play nice to get them back. But what's a Winchester to do in the meantime?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Give the Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Русский available: [Вспомнить все](http://yelynx.livejournal.com/26671.html) by [Yelynx](http://yelynx.livejournal.com)
> 
>   
> 

At first they think it's gremlins. Or gnomes, or maybe some sort of trickster, because that's the sort of stuff that's been going down. Prankish things, but a lot more worrisome. The city is clearing a forest to make room for a new industrial district, which takes big, destructive equipment. When that shit starts malfunctioning, people get hurt.

One machine going haywire, that's just bad luck. Three of them, and things get suspicious. Every single piece of equipment at work on the forest? That still sounds more like tree huggers and sabotage than the Winchesters' usual gig.

But along with the malfunctions they've gotten their hands on medical reports. A whole stack of them, as one by one the crew trying to _run_ the equipment has started dropping. Not dead, but amnesiac. Whole memories there one instant and gone the next, spreading one by one, like some sort of plague. The doctors can't find any cause for the afflictions. No head injuries, no strokes, no new viruses or bacteria. Just global memory loss, or something like it. Sudden, total and completely inexplicable.

It means Sam and Dean are on the case, even though there's no death toll - yet. Depending on what's causing the incidents, things could escalate. Better to solve it now and cut the inevitable off at the pass. If they can unravel the mystery before anyone _really_ gets hurt, that's more victory than they're used to.

 

Unfortunately, three days of interviewing workers, doctors and worried family members doesn't tell them much. Even research doesn't narrow the field with so little to go on. How many creatures live in the forest, steal memories, mess with heavy machinery and don't like having their trees torn down? Lots of them, it turns out.

When Dean's finally fed up enough to suggest they get off their asses and visit the site, Sam's stomach does an uneasy flip. They'll go in as prepared as they can, which is nowhere near prepared enough. They've got squat to go on, and rock salt doesn't work on everything.

But a quick glance around the room reminds him that they've got nothing else to follow. Medical reports, newspapers and folklore encyclopedia printouts, a pile that drives home the fact that their leads are dried up and useless. Dean just sits on Sam's bed amidst the mess of papers, frustrated scowl on his face as he waits for the inevitable, reluctant agreement.

Which is how Sam finds himself on the other end of an interminable car ride, out in the woods and well past dusk. The Impala's parked a mile and a half behind them, hidden out of sight from the road, and Dean is nearly ninja-silent at Sam's side. Their eyes skim along the tree line as they approach, unlit flashlights in their hands. It won't do to broadcast their position, especially since they'll need their eyes adjusted to the dark if they want to catch a look at whatever is hiding in the trees.

The moon is waxing gibbous overhead, but for a second Sam thinks he sees something in the deepest shadows to his right. He freezes in his tracks, and Dean catches his clue instantly, stops to stare in the same direction.

Sam spares him a glance, catches the question in Dean's eyes. He takes a tentative step instead of answering, draws deliberately closer to the shadows, and he sees it again. A glint of something in the blackness, bright and shifting behind the brush. He can almost make it out, a little closer, a little more. Dean is right behind him, a warm familiar strength on his periphery.

When the indistinct shimmering lunges straight for them, Sam doesn't even have time to yell his brother's name.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first thing he notices is the red glow of sunlight stinging sharp through his eyelids. Followed closely by a furious throb in the back of his skull that speaks of either hangover or concussion. Something digs painfully into his back, and he shifts off of it with a groan, forcing himself upright and blinking against the sun.

His antagonist turns out to be a tree root sticking out of the dirt, and a quick glance around finds him nothing but more trees, dirt and grass. All that and the slumped shape of some dude lying unconscious five feet away.

With great care and protesting muscles, he hauls to his knees and edges close enough to poke at an outstretched arm, eyes sweeping instinctively to check for signs of injury.

"Hey, buddy," he says, shaking one shoulder and raising an impressed eyebrow at the muscle beneath his fingers.

The guy groans and brushes the floppy mess of bangs out of his eyes as he sits up, groggy and confused, and asks, "'Wha's going on?"

It takes a moment to realize he doesn't actually know. He tries to focus in and drag up some kind of reason he might be waking up on the edge of a forest, but he gets nothing. Trying to remember the blinking face in front of him is also useless, but it's not until he realizes he doesn't know anything _else_ that he _really_ starts to freak out.

He's on his feet in an instant, pacing and agitated and poking at the blank spots in his brain that he's pretty sure are supposed to have memories or something in them.

"Shit!" he snarls, scrubbing at his face with one hand. "Shit, shit, Christ, shit, God _damn_ it!" Because he doesn't even know his _name_ , and this is shaping up to suck. Epically.

"Dean, just calm down," says the guy still sitting on his butt in the dirt.

"Dean? My name is Dean?" He latches onto the information like a life-line, rolls it around in his head and decides it fits okay. Maybe he should offer a hand to help the guy up, but he's a little too distracted to spare the effort just now. "Dean _what_?" he demands.

The man gets himself to his feet without assistance and looks just about to answer the question before his face falls, sudden and confused.

"I… don't know."

"What's _your_ name? And what are we doing out here?"

"I don't know that either," the guy says, shifting his weight from foot to foot in obvious discomfort.

They both search their respective pockets, and it gives them a little more to go on. A couple Kwik-Stop receipts, a cell phone apiece and two keys. One is to a car and the other a Motel 6. It all adds up to tell them they've got a ride and a place to stay, and apparently one of them has a thing for peanut M&M's.

They've also got weapons. The shotgun and colt on the ground nearby are _probably_ theirs, anyway. As are the wooden stakes, unfortunately. He's not sure if that makes them criminals or crazies, but either way they should clear out fast.

"Don't suppose you remember where we parked," Dean asks, voice dry and not particularly hopeful. He's not expecting an answer, but his companion scans the horizon, picks a direction and points.

"Seriously?" Dean asks, incredulous. "You don't remember your name, or anything _else_ that might help us, but you remember where we parked the _car_?"

The guy, and god is he tall, shifts on his feet and looks embarrassed. Says, "Apparently," and Dean lets it go.

The car is right where he pointed, a ways down the road and tucked behind the brush. It's a thing of beauty, easy fit of the key into the ignition, and she starts up with a purr when he gives it a try. They still don't know the tall guy's name, and nothing in the cab of the car is particularly enlightening on that score. The glove compartment full of fake IDs is no help. It's also suspicious as hell.

The arsenal in the trunk is worse.

"What kind of freaks _are_ we?!" Dean exclaims, staring at the array of weapons and other, weirder things. There are fake credit cards but no stash of money, and they theorize but reject the life-of-crime idea. There's no loot tucked away. Just the weapons and the other stuff, some of it too weird for words. Besides, what is there to kill or steal out in the middle of nowhere?

So, not criminals. Which pretty much leaves them at 'total nutjobs' and maybe that's worse.

"If we _are_ psycho, it looks like it's both of us," the tall guy points out as Dean guns the engine and aims for the road.

"Great," he mutters. "Except that _still_ leaves us not knowing _why_ we're driving around together with no memories and a trunk full of crazy."

Which sums things up pretty much completely, and they head for town with their eyes peeled for a Motel 6. Dean keeps stealing glances at the dude slumping in the passenger seat, thinking about how it's sketchy as hell that one of them just happens to remember a couple scattered fragments of what they need to know.

It _doesn't_ make him suspicious, not the way he thinks it should. He takes that as a good sign and keeps on driving.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time they pull into town, Sam has decided it's utterly unfair that he remembered this _Dean_ jerk's name and not his own. It's a little moot now. He worked it out twenty minutes back, and he's _still_ bitter that Dean was right about him remembering his voicemail code. He can remember a seven digit number but not his own _name_. Which is 'Sam', apparently, and Dean is still throwing him smug glances every couple of minutes.

Sam's eyes are on the road even though he's in the passenger seat, scanning for the right motel sign, but his brain is otherwise occupied. He can't stop worrying at the useless patches of not-quite-memory in his head, like a rash or a toothache or the piece of thread fraying loose from his sleeve.

He doesn't remember ever having amnesia before, but he's pretty sure _this_ isn't what it's supposed to feel like. The pieces he has, those are just the clearest patches. Everything else is _there_ , but muted and fuzzy, inaccessible, all beyond his reach no matter how he pushes.

He resents _all_ the things he can't remember, but what's really driving him nuts is _Dean_. Dean, whose name rings clear in his head, whose face is still familiar. Sam wants to know how they met, what they're doing, who they _are_ to each other. Whatever this is, a life of crime or a life of crazy, it looks like they share it. And amidst all the missing pieces, Dean is familiar in a way that speaks of comfort and closeness well beyond casual acquaintance.

Sam doesn't say any of this out loud, of course. His memories may be gone, but he still has his pride.

"There!" he says, pointing off to the left at the red and blue sign. Dean turns the car smoothly into the lot and parks them near the front entrance. Tries to make Sam get out and do the embarrassing legwork alone, but Sam points out that their chances of being recognized and getting help are better if _both_ their faces are visible. He can tell Dean is pissed at the logic, but they walk into the lobby together.

"Hi," says Sam, knowing better than to push his luck and try to make Dean do the talking. "This is going to sound strange, but… could you tell us which room is ours?"

The man behind the desk quirks an appraising eyebrow, and Sam feels suddenly self-conscious. A night passed out on the edge of a forest hasn't left either of them looking too pretty.

"Rough night?" asks the man, round little face fighting a smile. Sam just purses his lips, hopes that it's answer enough, and relaxes with silent relief when he continues, "Room 26."

Sam doesn't much like the amused twinkle in the man's eyes, but thanks him anyway as they hurry out the door. Dean insists on taking the time to move the car, but Sam has already walked the distance and stepped into the room by the time he finishes parking her out front.

The room itself doesn't clarify anything. There are two beds, and Sam is surprised to realize that's _not_ what he was expecting. Nor is the existence of two beds entirely dispositive. One of them is a rumpled, obviously slept-in mess hogging all but one of the pillows. The other looks made, with more weapons, papers and a ragged duffel bag spread across the comforter.

"Huh," says Sam, throwing a glance at Dean just to see if the guy's worked out any more than he has.

"Don't look at me, dude," Dean mutters, poking through drawers and cupboards. "Looks like _you_ hog the pillows, though."

"Really," says Sam, lets his voice convey how unimpressed he is with that theory.

"Fine. Maybe _I_ hog the pillows and _you're_ anal-retentive. Whatever. We don't know, and there's no point guessing and making shit up." When Dean runs out of drawers to open, he drops heavily onto the edge of the far bed and starts digging through the duffel and papers.

"That bed doesn't even look slept in," says Sam. He's not sure _why_ he has to point it out, but it feels too important to let slide.

"Doesn't mean anything." Dean doesn't even bother looking up from the bundle in his hands. "You could _totally_ be that much of a neat freak, and we might be cousins or something."

"Cousins? Seriously? Is that really the vibe you get from me?"

He's not particularly surprised when he gets no response, but he still huffs an irritated breath when Dean deflects by throwing a pile of printouts in his face and saying, "Check out the shit we were reading into. This _can't_ be a coincidence."

Sam takes the stack, however grudgingly, and skims them over. It's nine kinds of crazy. Page upon page of research that just reinforces the theory that they're total whack jobs. Except that Dean's right, it _can't_ be coincidence. They've apparently been investigating cases of amnesia, and they woke up this morning on the edge of a forest with no memory of who they are, how they got there or what in hell they're doing. It can't be coincidence, but Sam's pretty sure it can't be any of the shit on these pages, either.

"This is insane," he points out, handing them back.

"It fits, though. Even the place we woke up, we've got it marked out on a dozen different maps. We must've been looking into this and got whammied ourselves."

"Great," says Sam, crossing his arms and hating how reasonable the theory sounds. "Except even if it was something on that list, we don't know _what_ , and we sure as hell don't know how to make it give our memories _back_."

"One thing at a time, Sam," says Dean, slipping into an easy calm. "Maybe we can start with why _you_ got to hang on to some of your memories. Because, dude, that's just not fair."

There's no suspicion in his voice. Just a familiar, petulant whine, and Sam laughs and shakes his head, because hell if he knows, either.

They're going to have to retrace their steps from square one. Investigate somehow, when apparently they couldn't figure it out when they _had_ their memories to work with.

Yeah, Sam can already tell this is going to be thrilling. He just hopes Dean's confident bluff holds out, because he's got _no_ idea what comes next.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For the next couple of days they follow their own trail all over town, finding traces of their investigation and re-interviewing witnesses that are obviously confused to be talking to them again. It's a pain in the ass trying to mimic their previous cover stories, deliberately vague in their questions and ignoring the perplexed expressions they inevitably earn.

The backtracking is about as productive as Dean expected, and all he learns in those two useless days is that Sam thinks he's hot. That's the conclusion he reaches, anyway, since the dude won't stop _staring_ at him. Dean feels that heavy look on him through every moment of their search, Sam's eyes following him with a deliberate intensity that sends curious shivers down Dean's spine.

He finds himself wondering about the possibilities, mind wandering places he damn well knows he shouldn't let it go. They're lacking all the vital information, and it doesn't matter that Sam's frequent glances are distracting as hell and make his blood hum. There's no getting around the fact that, until they know more, it's a Very Bad Idea.

"This is pointless," Sam says on day three, and Dean is glad he didn't have to say it first. "Obviously this shit didn't help us the first time around, so why are we wasting our energy?"

"You're right." Dean throws a newer stack of printouts down on the comforter and cricks his neck from side to side.

"So?" says Sam, eyes expectant and _staring_ again. "What now?"

"Let's go back to the site. We've already lost our memories, what more can happen?"

Sam looks ready to protest, but instead his shoulders slump in defeat. All the logical arguments, the fact that they don't know what they're up against and they're practically crippled with all the things they can't remember, those are nothing when the simple fact holds that they've got nowhere else to look.

Doing something stupid feels infinitely preferable to doing nothing at all, and Dean ignores the persistence of Sam's eyes on him as he packs a bunch of weapons into the duffel and heads for the car.

 

Back at the edge of the forest, the 'stupid' underlying their plan begins to feel more tangible, and Dean thinks about suggesting they turn back. But he has no idea what to suggest they turn back _to_ , so instead he stands silent beside Sam, both of them scanning the trees for any sign at all. It feels useless, with no idea what they're looking for, and Dean nearly lands on his ass in shock when What They're Looking For steps right out of the shadows.

It shouldn't exist. It _can't_ exist. And it's still standing twenty feet away, looking like it owns the whole forest. Come to think of it, maybe it does. It's a goddamn _unicorn_ , and Dean doesn't think he's ever going to wrap his head around the fact that unicorns are real.

"Sam," he says, voice a low warning when his companion steps forward and gets closer to the thing than Dean is comfortable with. But Sam ignores him, walks right up, calm as can be.

It doesn't look like a horse. Too slim, too tall, almost too bright to take in. Wide, black eyes blink out of a long, slender face, silver mane glistening as it blows in nonexistent wind.

Dean stands impatient and waits for something to happen, confused and edgy when nothing does. Sam doesn't move, doesn't talk, doesn't acknowledge Dean's existence once he's honed in on the unicorn, and Dean realizes that the two are communicating somehow. Realizes a moment later that interrupting is probably a bad idea, so he curbs the instinct to tackle Sam out of danger. It'd be overkill anyway.

He doesn't breathe easy again until the unicorn retreats into the bushes and Sam is back at his side. Dean restrains the glower, if barely, and quirks an expectant eyebrow.

"I take it you couldn't hear any of that," Sam offers, has the decency to look sheepish.

"Duh."

"Okay," Sam mumbles. "Well, he said--"

"He?"

"Yeah," says Sam. " _He_. Why is that any weirder than the fact that there's a unicorn in this forest?"

"It's just…" Dean's not sure _why_ that's so strange, but it _is_. "Unicorns are supposed to be girls," he finally says. "Didn't you see it? There were sparkles and _everything_." Sam doesn't seem swayed by his logic. Sam, in fact, is staring at him, startled and a little bit aghast.

"Dude, are you _twelve_? Stop being sexist and let me fill you in."

"Fine. What did you learn?"

There are any number of possible responses to his question, all of which Dean is willing to call plausible at this point, but he's not expecting Sam to slump his shoulders and scuff a toe in the dirt like he's actually _worried_ about something.

"So the fact that I still have some of my memories," Sam finally says. "It's because I've got special abilities."

"Special abilities." Dean's not sure he likes the sound of that.

"Yeah. Apparently I'm psychic or something? That's why his mind-whammie didn't work right, and it's why he could talk to me." Sam is barely meeting his eyes, and Dean doesn't like it. It sounds like all sorts of things that could still go wrong. He feels the sudden need to offer reassurance, a kick-start of protective instinct, and he goes with it.

"Okay. You're a psychic freak. What else?"

"Well, we already knew the city was trying to clear the last of the forest to make room for a new industrial district. Turns out the unicorn is stuck here. He doesn't know where to go, can't risk wandering on his own when humans are stupid and dangerous and everywhere, and he can't stay here while they raze the forest to the ground. Lose-lose scenario."

"And we care _why_?"

"Because he'll give our memories back if we agree to help him."

Dean's too busy staring in unmasked disbelief to actually respond to that, because there are _levels_ of stupid and this bests them all. He doesn't protest when Sam suggests they continue this conversation elsewhere and leads the way back to the road. Yeah, they can discuss this somewhere else, and Dean can point out that Sam is an idiot, since he obviously hasn't noticed for himself.

Just as soon as he has a better plan to suggest.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I don't like it," Dean insists, twentieth time in as many minutes and Sam is starting to get sick of the repetition. He leans back in his chair and flicks the puce curtain aside to glance out at the parking lot, not a paranoid reflex so much as a need to look somewhere besides Dean. Dean is perched on the edge of the tidy bed, shoulders forward in a grouchy shrug that doesn't contribute much to the conversation.

"Dean--"

"No. We're not helping this thing. It stole our memories, dude. Why should we do it any favors?"

Sam heaves a put-upon sigh and deliberately levels a tired look at his stubborn cohort. They've been around this a dozen times, and they have yet to land on a better idea.

"It's not like we've got much choice," he points out reasonably. "None of our research tells us how to get our memories _back_ from a unicorn, and it's going to keep messing with the workers and equipment if we do nothing."

"There's one thing we could try." There's an unmistakable glint in Dean's eye, a look Sam might not remember but knows instantly. It's a hint of violence and pyromania, and he can tell Dean is dead serious and a little bit hopeful.

"You can't salt and burn a unicorn, Dean, are you _high_?"

The resigned sigh is instantaneous, and Sam almost feels bad for squashing that manic spark of intent. Almost, but not quite.

"No," Dean says, something like an afterthought. "I just… don't like it."

But the words this time are spoken with new weight, acknowledging that they don't have any other choice, and Dean finally settles down to help plan logistics. It turns out to be pretty complicated, planning a road trip with a unicorn, and it takes them awhile to settle on a destination. Carson National Forest is a state park and a promising locale, and it's their closest possibility. Still going to take awhile driving the way they'll have to with a horse trailer, and Sam can already tell this is going to be a pain in the ass.

"Come on," Dean says three hours later. He stands as he speaks, shrugging into his coat. "I need food."

Memories or no, the words resound with a total familiarity that leaves Sam winded as he hauls himself out of his stiff slouch. He's suddenly floored by an irresistible urge, and he doesn't bother trying to fight it. He grabs Dean by the elbow two feet from the door, spins him close and kisses him.

Logically, he knows it's a bad idea. Most of him doesn't care, especially once Dean's startled posture dissolves and leaves him pressing eagerly into the kiss instead. Sam wishes this felt familiar, wishes there weren't a gaping hole in his brain where Dean belongs, because this is perfect. Dean's lips are softer than they have any right to be, Dean's tongue teasing as he licks his way into Sam's mouth, and Sam wants _everything_.

He manages to keep his hands from straying too far, and lets go the second time Dean tries to pull away. Their eyes lock, and Sam can almost read the words behind that quirked eyebrow.

"Yeah, bad idea. Sorry." He's not really, and both of them know it. Dean lets it go anyway.

"Still need food," he says, flustered and pretending not to be. Sam bites his lower lip to keep from chuckling in amusement, and follows obediently out the door.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They set out as quickly as they can, which means as soon as they get the trailer hooked up to the Impala and the unicorn inside it. Dean would feel bad about the undignified arrangements, but he's still too pissed to care.

His existing frustration is compounded by all the annoyances accompanying this trip. Not only do they have to behave all speed limits between here and New Mexico, can't risk getting pulled over and having to explain a mythical creature to law enforcement officers, but he can't _reach_ the speed limits because he's pulling a goddamn horse trailer full of unicorn. It's almost enough to make him ditch the plan and forfeit the memories.

But hell if he's going to let a _unicorn_ best them.

They've only been on the highway for thirty seconds when Dean hears a pained grunt from the passenger seat. A quick glance gets him an eyeful of Sam pressing a hand to his head, expression so tight it hurts to look at.

"You okay, man?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"Take the next exit," he says, rubbing at his temple.

He doesn't get a chance for another few minutes, risking worried glimpses that do nothing but confirm the screwed-tight expression on Sam's face, until Dean finally finds an exit and pulls off. He parks it on the shoulder, and Sam's face finally smoothes back out.

"What the hell was that?" Dean demands, barely resisting the urge to crowd into Sam's space.

"This isn't gonna work, dude," Sam says instead of answering him. "We can't take the highways."

"Sam, seriously. What the _hell_? What's up with your head?"

"Nothing." Sam drops his hands into his lap. "He was just… _yelling_ kinda loud. We'll have to stick to the back roads, man."

"Wait, let me get this straight," says Dean, because he needs a minute. "Let's jump past the part where I give you shit for having a psychic connection with a _unicorn_ , since I'm pretty sure we've been over that. Are you out of your _mind_? Do you _want_ to be on the road with this jackass for a week?" It feels strange to be calling an immortal creature that shouldn't even exist a 'jackass', but it's apt and he refuses to over think it.

"No, actually," and Sam sounds genuinely annoyed. "But I don't see a way around it. He's barely putting up with our plan as it is. We drag him down the highway in that trailer again, he's gonna be furious."

"So, what? We drive halfway across the country on back roads and side streets? Because the _unicorn_ is pissed off?" This gets better and better, and Dean kind of wants to strangle something. "You realize how lame that sounds, right?"

It's an irritated drag of minutes before Sam responds, air strained with agitation.

"He's calling the shots, as long as he's got our memories," Sam finally points out, voice a thin, measured calm, and god damn if he isn't right. "I don't see any way around it."

Dean doesn't either, and it makes him every bit as angry as the speed limits and the horse trailer and everything else about this stupid expedition. But none of it is Sam's fault, so Dean backs off and starts planning an alternate route. Sam is already digging out a map as they pull back into the street.

If they're going to be stuck on side roads this whole trip, fine. They'll deal. Dean makes a mental note to maneuver the trailer over as many potholes as he can.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It's actually going to be _over_ a week at the pace they're stuck, pulling the trailer along dinky, chalky side streets and adhering strictly to every speed limit. Worse, the unicorn will only put up with being crammed in that trailer for so many hours at a stretch. Sam fast gets sick of the unicorn's voice admonishing him in his head, and Dean simultaneously grumbling about sparkly, prissy passengers.

But it isn't all bad. Accommodating the unicorn's demands turns out to mean looking for hotels near wooded areas, and Sam finds he doesn't mind spending fewer hours on the road. It leaves them seeking out their own entertainment, which means time with Dean that's not in the car and no unicorn grumbling in his head.

That first day of driving, the unicorn doesn't deign to talk to him. Sam has the deluded hope it will be a trend, but as it turns out, even unicorns get bored. Sam would sympathize, but Dean is right. They don't owe him anything. He puts up with the mutterings in the back of his skull, and deliberately focuses on more important things.

Like enjoying Dean's company. Even on the road, trapped in the cab of a car with warm bottles of Mountain Dew and melted gas station snacks on the dashboard, he finds himself appreciating his familiar companion. He watches, more than is probably admissible, cataloguing everything about him. Sam knows it's a little creepy, even as he ignores Dean's occasional discomfited fidgeting, but he's _fascinated_. It's like he can feel the hole in his memory where all this belongs, where _Dean_ belongs, and he can't leave it alone.

For some reason it feels weird to have a destination and no immediate purpose, none beyond playing taxi service, but Sam doesn't give it too much thought. He's content to follow Dean to the nearest bar and get his ass kicked at darts. When Dean suggests they crash out early, Sam doesn't complain.

The sooner they get on the road, the sooner their destination impends, and Sam wants Dean back in his head.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By day two they've got a routine, and they dump their passenger in a woodsy knoll just outside an empty little burg of a town. It actually claims to be a city and fails at it so completely that Dean _has_ to point out its performance issues. There are only three hotels in the area, but one of them is the right level of cheap. It's also three blocks from a trashy bar and grill, so their destination is set.

Turns out the grill's less trashy inside than it looks from the street. In fact, most of the décor looks deliberate. A little bit kitschy and echoing strangely of log cabin , and even though Sam screws up his face a little when they first walk in, Dean immediately decides he likes the place. They're late for the dinner rush, since their passenger insisted on a three-hour stop in the middle of the afternoon, but the waitress is cute and friendly as she seats them near the bar and takes their orders.

She's still friendly three hours later when she's off duty and letting Dean buy her a drink. Some pink, sugar-rimmed thing that kind of hurts to look at. _She's_ pleasant enough on the eyes to make up for it, though, all long legs and fluttering eyelashes, and her intentions are clear as glass.

"You new in town?" she asks, perching on the edge of her barstool and leaning close enough to be in his personal space.

"Just passing through. Me and my… cousin." He gestures behind him without turning around, indicating the corner where he's pretty sure Sam is still sitting and nursing his beer. Dean feels a little bad hogging the only looker in the bar all to himself. But a road trip with an entitled unicorn has left him cranky at the world, and hell if he plans on being a giver just now.

"He okay?" she asks, actual concern coloring her expression. "He looks sorta pissed." Dean risks a glance over his shoulder and confirms that Sam is still nursing that beer, looking more than a little put out about it. It's almost a full on pout, and his brain catches for a second on the thought that Sam might be jealous.

"He's fine," Dean finally assures her. He's not sure he means it, and it's a force of effort to drag his eyes away before Sam notices the attention. "Just been a long drive."

In the end he doesn't get anything but the pleasure of her conversation. It's not that she isn't ready and willing, and it's sure as hell not that he doesn't want to. When the last of her drink is gone and she's gathering her purse from behind the bar, the look in her eyes and the smile on her freshly glossed lips make it clear she's waiting for him to drop a smooth invitation. He almost goes for it, too. Wants to follow her out that door and see what else she has to offer.

But the small voice of reason throwing a fit in the back of his head wins out. Fact is, he might be taken, might be married, might be a prude or a priest or someone else with a very good reason not to sleep with the hot waitress in some town he'll never visit again. So instead he shakes her hand, kisses her on the cheek and wishes her a good night. The flash of disappointment in her eyes is brief, and at least he gets a pleasant view as she walks away.

There's a relieved smile on Sam's face when Dean rejoins him at the table, two more beers in hand, and that's in the realm of things Dean isn't thinking about. He keeps the conversation light, the jokes about unicorns and virginal girls to a relative minimum, and they relax their way through what Dean decides is the best beer he's ever tasted. Not that he remembers anything he can compare it to, but that's just semantics. Who needs semantics when there's good company, great beer and the victory that comes with knowing the hot chick would totally have taken him home?

 

They get back to the room pleasantly inebriated, and Dean is still too wound to crash. He settles in on the bed nearest the door, back slouching easily against the headboard as he clicks through channels in search of anything with explosions. He finds something called _Die Hard_ in twenty clicks, and even though he should probably _remember_ the movie, he settles in to see what happens, keeping the volume low in case Sam wants to call it a night.

It doesn't last him long. Within two minutes he's got a lapful of Sam, climbing right on top of him in a confident straddle and kissing him without preamble. Dean's brain is slow to wrap around the fact that he's got Sam's _tongue_ in his mouth, the lingering aftertaste of beer shared between them. Sam's hands are all over him, restless and eager and finally settling at his collar, thumbs stroking up along Dean's throat, and nothing in the world should feel this good.

It takes all the willpower in his upstairs brain and then some to push Sam away, and Dean almost caves to the frustrated growl it earns him. He holds firm somehow, hands an insistent pressure against Sam's chest and keeping the barest breath of space between them.

"Still a bad idea," he points out, surprised his voice holds so steady.

"And?" Sam looks unimpressed.

"And seriously, dude. You _know_ there's, like, a fifty-fifty chance we're related somehow."

"Do you honestly believe that?" Sam asks, and his expression slides to stubborn incredulity. "Look at what we _do_ , Dean. Aside from taxi-services, we apparently hunt shit that shouldn't even exist. So you're saying that's, what, some kind of family business?"

"Okay, I don't know," Dean concedes, and something in his chest aches from holding off this storm front. "But we can't risk it, man. We just _can't_."

"I'm not asking you to fuck me," Sam says. He murmurs it an inch from Dean's lips, hands sliding boldly up to hold his face, and that _word_ sends anticipatory shivers down Dean's spine. "Just this." A quick, light press of lips. "I just want this."

Dean's fall is inevitable, such a small step to giving in, and how can something that feels like this be wrong? His thoughts are still muddied from the alcohol, and he knows distantly that logic should trump sensation, but right now he doesn't have the space in his head to care.

They slide far enough down the bed to get more comfortable, and Sam is all over him. Hands and lips and even teeth, a knee sliding deliberately between Dean's legs to offer the friction they both need.

It shouldn't be this perfect. All they do is rub against each other, Sam holding to his word and not trying to take things any further. Their clothes don't go anywhere, aside from shirts getting rucked up by the slide of exploring hands, and it shouldn't feel like the best goddamn sex Dean has ever had. Not that he's got the memory for comparing _this_ , either, but they both come right in their jeans, and Dean is pretty sure he'll never feel this incredible again.

They lie there to the muted sounds of television gunfire for a long, warm stretch after that. Entwined and sticky in their clothes, heads still a little bit fuzzy with beer. Neither of them wants to move, even though this is going to _suck_ come morning if they don't get up and change.

Dean can't bring himself to climb out of Sam's arms, and he wonders - thinks - _knows_ they're in over their heads.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They don't touch each other for the next day and a half, mostly because Sam is a little scared to push his luck. Dean doesn't seem pissed about the frottage, but that doesn't mean Sam is in the clear. He crossed a line, muddle-headed or not, and he knows that's on him. All the same logical arguments still apply, still make this a bad idea no matter _how_ sure Sam feels, and he wishes like hell he could bring himself to care.

He makes it nearly forty-eight hours of behaving himself, but apparently that's his limit. That night he crawls into Dean's bed, no real mischief in mind. He just needs the proximity, and Dean settles back against him with something too close to relief for Sam to feel guilty.

"Should I apologize?" he asks, mostly to break the silence. He's pressed close along Dean's back, an arm slung possessively around him.

"For what?"

"For the other night. For pushing like I did when you were trying to be the smart one." It's not that he feels bad about what happened. But he will if Dean is actually pissed. He'll apologize and mean it, back off and let it go. They'll have their memories back soon enough, and Sam _knows_ he should be strong enough to wait. Should've been strong enough in the first place.

"Have you heard me complaining?" Dean asks. It's not an answer, but it's close enough, and something in Sam's chest unwinds. He tightens his hold and lays a tentative kiss on Dean's skin, just above the neckline of his t-shirt. Dean shivers in his arms, an indecipherable silhouette in the darkness, and Sam does it again.

"So…," he says, voice suddenly tentative. "You really think we might be related?" Not the moment, not the mood, but he genuinely needs to know. Dean is silent for a long, pensive stretch, arm sliding to cover Sam's across his stomach.

"No," he finally answers. "It doesn't… This feels _right_. How could I feel this way about some random dude I've known for less than a week? So I figure maybe it's something from before."

Sam snickers into the back of Dean's neck, soft and happy, and he can't help it. Can't help but poke fun.

"Dude," he says. "You're totally the bottom in this relationship."

Dean elbows him in the ribs and kicks him to the floor, which Sam supposes is the only appropriate response.

It doesn't stop him from blowing Dean the next day. Car pulled off in a copse of trees, ninety miles to the town behind them and a hundred seventy ahead, and the unicorn is off communing with the squirrels or something.

It's fast and messy, and Sam wipes his face clean on what he randomly remembers is one of Dean's shirts. He can see in the distinct smolder behind Dean's eyes that he's ready to return the favor. Which is sweet, hot, _wonderful_ , except it turns out Sam doesn't need the help just now. It should be embarrassing, but instead they share a secret smirk that leaves him lightheaded and giddy.

They're on the road half an hour later, and Sam wants to know if Dean is already wondering, too. How long until they can pull off for the night and get their hands on each other again?

Turns out a hundred seventy miles is almost too long.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They share a bed after that, for what remains of their drive. No need to discuss the point. Just how it is now, and Dean slides comfortably into it like this is how things are meant to be.

It's not a big deal, and for the most part they behave themselves. They don't cross any _new_ lines, and Dean reminds himself repeatedly that they really goddamn shouldn't. Right or wrong, no matter how good this feels, they still don't _know_. Clinging to that moral high ground gets harder with every hour that sneaks by.

It's less distracting on the road at least, especially once the unicorn gets bored. Sam's eyes unfocus into the distance any time he sinks into his head to use his mind mojo, but his reactions still leak out like real-time conversation. Dean can tell when the unicorn has said something funny, because Sam will snicker and smirk at nothing. He can tell when they're fighting, because Sam's face screws up into a look of disapproval, silence of the car broken by an occasional derisive snort. He doesn't ask what they talk about because, in total honesty, he doesn't want to know.

"Talk to me, dude," he finally cuts in, an hour since Sam started glowering hard enough to start the horizon on fire.

"Huh?" Sam blinks, confused, but comes back from whatever corner of his own head was holding him.

"I said talk to _me_. Conversing with memory-stealing mythical ass-holes is just going to raise your blood pressure."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, but his expression is still coming back from elsewhere, and Dean isn't sure he even knows what he just agreed with.

"So tell me something," says Dean, one final glance confirming that Sam is actually with him again.

"What?"

" _Anything_. Tell me what else you can remember. Not important stuff, just… anything." He's not sure why he wants to know when he'll have it back for himself in a couple days, but he's desperately curious. They've already established a dozen times over that Sam doesn't remember anything useful, important, _big_. Not beyond this car and Dean's name and a couple other odds and ends. But he's got to know more of _something_ , even if it's completely useless, and Dean is suddenly hungry for anything he can get.

"Okay," says Sam, humming while he thinks through the next couple miles. "I hate spaghettios," he finally says, and hell if _that's_ not the most random thing Dean has ever heard.

"Spaghettios," he says, just to make sure he heard right.

"Yup. Can't stand 'em. Can't stand clowns, either."

"Well, hell, _nobody_ likes clowns. Spaghettios, though… maybe you should give 'em a chance."

"No thanks," Sam mutters. He fishes around on the floor for the last bottle of water and offers it over once he's drained it halfway. Dean takes a grateful pull and hands it back, face suddenly flushing a little at the next question he wants to ask.

"Do you remember anything about _me_?"

Sam thinks even longer about that one, face earnest and focused like he wants the knowledge just as badly as Dean does. Dean figures that makes sense and waits less patiently, left thumb drumming a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel as Sam thinks, no pensive humming this time.

"You saved me from the fire."

"What?" Dean's thumb falters on the offbeat, and he spares Sam a quick glance. "Is that some kind of overdramatic metaphor?"

"No, I think it's literal." Sam's face is all scrunched up in concentration, like he's staring straight into the sun even though the highway whips gray and cloudy along outside. "I don't get a clear sense of it, just… an explosion of flame. I'm screaming for someone, and then you're there. Saving my ass."

Dean wants to make a joke of it. Comment on Sam's fine ass and how it deserves saving, or maybe something about ninjas. He wants to, but his throat goes suddenly dry, thick with smoke from a fire he doesn't remember. The half-formed jibe dies on his tongue.

"Wow," he says, all he can manage a moment later when Sam is still quiet beside him.

"Yeah," says Sam in a voice gone deep. "I… sorry. I tried for something to go with the spaghettios, I swear."

"It's okay." It really is. They only have a couple more days ahead of them, three on the outside if their passenger is extra difficult. A couple days and they'll have their memories back, won't need Sam to tell him things they should both already know.

In the meantime, Dean thinks maybe he's glad to know _this_. No context to go on, and it's probably proof that the life they're so eager to remember is screwed to shit. But it's a piece of the puzzle, a fragment of explanation for whatever is tying them together. Dean pulled Sam from the fire.

In a couple of days he'll know what that means.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Their last night on the road, they pull in early and find a place, even though they could have driven straight through and ditched their passenger by morning. They don't discuss it. Just drop the unicorn outside the city limits and check themselves into a Super 8. They order a pizza, find a sci-fi flick on cable, and settle in on the room's wide, lumpy bed.

Sam is pretty sure Dean would commit seppuku before using the word 'cuddle', but that's what they do through the whole movie. They wind close and only half watch the screen, and Sam pretends his heart isn't beating a thousand times a minute.

"One more day," says Dean, and it startles Sam out of his trance.

"Huh?"

"One more day, and we'll hit Carson. Drop our pet unicorn off in the woods and get our memories back."

"Thank god," says Sam, except he's not sure he means it. Dean doesn't look too happy, and it's not like it's new information. There's no reason for him to have said it aloud.

The thing is, Sam should feel excited. The sharp thrill of anticipation that comes with knowing their destination is close. The barrier holding his memories off will be gone, and all his questions answered at last. He should feel relieved.

Sam doesn't feel anything near relief. He feels a little bit sad and a little bit scared, and it's not rocket science figuring out why. Things will change tomorrow, and with no way to predict _how_ , Sam isn't sure he wants them to.

When they kiss, Sam can tell Dean is thinking the same thing. It's desperate between them, hot and hopeful and wrong like the first time Sam climbed into Dean's space and demanded this. It scares the hell out of him, and he doesn't protest as Dean pushes, climbs half on top of him to press closer as his tongue licks along Sam's.

He tries to follow when Dean draws back, but Dean's hand is firm on his chest, Dean's body a furnace of weight pressing him to the mattress. He strains into the touch even as Dean dips close to whisper straight into his ear.

"I want you to fuck me."

The words drag Sam's brain to a screeching six-car pileup. He almost comes right in his pants, and the smug look on Dean's face says the jerk goddamn knows it.

"Christ, Dean, warn a guy."

Dean's smirk only intensifies as he rolls off the bed. Turns out, he came prepared, and Sam wishes he could make some kind of Boy Scout crack. Problem is, he doesn't really have the synapses to spare right now. Not with Dean shedding layer after layer of clothing on his way back to the bed. Sam just watches, jaw slack, as inch after beautiful inch of skin slides visible.

Dean is already kneeling on the bed sans clothing by the time Sam figures out he should be a lot more naked himself. Dean's hands try to help, eager but mostly getting in the way. It's an awkward struggle getting free of his jeans and boxers, the last hurdle, and Sam almost hoots in triumph when he finally throws them to the floor.

He pins Dean beneath him, pressing close and feeling the electric thrill of skin against skin. Dean's chest, stomach, thighs, all so hot against his own. He kisses Dean again, accepts the lube pressed into his hand.

It's all he can do to pull away from Dean's mouth to meet his eyes as he clicks the small bottle open in one hand. He doesn't want to give up even that small contact, but he has to know. "You sure?"

"Yeah. God yes, Sam, _please_."

Sam bites deliberately at Dean's throat, teasing, before latching hard just beneath his ear. Not enough to break the skin, but hopefully enough to bruise. A tangible reminder of this moment that he slicks with his tongue and sucks to the surface, reveling in the audible groan drawn as he leaves a mark that will last for days.

"You ever done this before?" he asks as he coats his fingers slick.

"Dunno," says Dean, though his expression isn't concerned. "You?"

"Guess we'll find out."

And apparently Sam _has_ done this before, because as he slides his first finger in, something like instinct takes over. A second finger, flexing and scissoring with the first to stretch and loosen reluctant muscle as he swallows every inarticulate grunt of approval straight from Dean's mouth. He knows when he's found the right spot from the sudden, startled buck of Dean's hips.

" _Fuck_ , Sam, yeah. Right there, do that again."

Sam introduces a third finger, just for a quick, taunting moment before he withdraws his hand entirely. He smiles at the bitten off curse as Dean's eyes urge him on in open challenge.

He braces one hand on Dean's hip, the other guiding as he slips his slicked up cock in and in. Dean is perfect and impossible and tight around him, welcoming and hot, and Sam worries that his brain might melt straight out through his ears. Dean's hips cant up to urge him deeper, and Sam is lost to a rhythm before he's even finished sliding all the way in. It's not until the third thrust that he pauses, no further to go and Dean's hands grasping along his back.

Sam would feel bad for not allowing time to adjust, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. Eyes shut tight and head thrown back against the pillows. The column of his throat is offered up, and Sam can already see the bruise settling in. He bites again, can't resist, just above Dean's collar, and when he starts to move, Dean is quick to pick up the rhythm.

Sam swats Dean's hand away, takes Dean's dick in his own enormous grip and fists in time with every shuddering thrust. Dean's ankles lock behind Sam's back, his hands sliding unexpectedly into Sam's hair, and Sam barely manages to hold himself braced above one arm.

They don't come at the same time, but Sam is impressed with how close they manage. He presses his lips to Dean's temple when he pulls out, buries his face in Dean's throat as he collapses right on top of him like a sticky, sated human blanket.

"Dude," Dean protests, sounding winded. "You weigh a metric ton, and you're covered in spunk. Get off me."

Sam kisses him again instead, because that's way more entertaining. He eventually accedes to Dean's demands, getting up to grab a wet washcloth. The washcloth gets ditched on the floor somewhere near his pants once they're both cleaned up. Dean doesn't complain when Sam tucks them under the covers and spoons against his back, and they're both out before either thinks to turn off the television.

Changes may need adjusting to soon, but that doesn't matter now. Tonight they hold each other close, and Sam hopes tomorrow they can still have this.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day passes in a blur of hours on the road, both of them silent in nervous anticipation as the miles speed by in a blink. Even the unicorn is quiet, near as Dean can tell. Or maybe Sam's just ignoring the damn thing. It's impossible to discern from where he sits in the passenger seat, watching Sam's fingers drum on the steering wheel and eyes locked on the road ahead.

The day is grim around them, ominous clouds swamping the sky and threatening rain. Dean's fingers tap an edgy rhythm against the window, and he fights to keep his eyes on the horizon. He wants to tell Sam to pull over so he can waste twenty minutes on the side of the road kissing him breathless. His body aches everywhere, sore in all the right places, and he'd swear he can still taste Sam under his tongue. Sweaty, hungry, perfect, and his cock gives a hopeful twitch at the thought.

He's split straight in two, can't decide between giddy anticipation and a slow, nervous fear. He feels right about this, sure in a way that leaves him grateful for last night no matter _how_ things might stand once they get their memories back. But he wants to keep this, wants to hold onto Sam with everything he's got, and that? _That_ he can't be sure is in the cards.

When they get to Carson they have to sneak their way along more deserted back roads, away from all the official tourist centers. They find a path into the forest, packed dirt full of holes that make Dean swear with each shuddering bump. At least the unicorn must be miserable, he consoles himself, and he's still holding his breath once they stopped in a small clearing. Sam pulls on the parking brake against the minute incline.

"So," Sam says as he kills the engine.

"So," Dean repeats, deliberately unhelpful. He smirks when Sam rolls his eyes and climbs out of the car, and he only follows into the grass once Sam has opened the trailer so the unicorn can step free. He watches the two of them stand there and commune all telepathic-like, waits impatiently for the bolt of lightning or whatever that will return their memories.

The unicorn looks straight at him, a split second of unnervingly intense scrutiny, before it disappears into the woods. An arrogant swish of its tail, and it's just _gone_ , vanished without a trace. For a second Dean thinks they've been cheated.

Then it hits him, all at once and too much to take in, like a dam torn down. He sees it hit Sam in the same instant, eyes widening in revelation as his brother, his fucking _brother_ , figures it out the same second he does.

Sam is staring straight at him, face frozen. Rigid in an expression that screams 'oh shit, oh god, oh _fuck_ '. He looks suddenly green around the edges, but Dean beats him to it. Heaves a horrified " _Oh god_ ," and staggers away, drops to his knees to empty his stomach in the grass.

The taste of bile clings long after he's got nothing left to purge. His arms are shaking, barely supporting him, and he can feel Sam's eyes on him, watching and blank.

Sam has the sense to wait until he's done retching before setting a hand on his shoulder, but Dean shrugs violently away from it just the same.

"Don't goddamn _touch_ me," he hisses, throat rough and voice echoing shattered rage.

He can't look at Sam when he finally manages to stand, and instead levels his fury at the woods, wishing he could start it on fire just by thinking it. He knows his expression is transparent. Wrath and violence and all the vengeance he can hope to wreak if they can just find the son of a bitch again.

"Dean, you can't kill a unicorn," Sam says, sounding quietly numb. "Trust me, it'll bring some seriously bad shit down on your head."

Dean laughs, a jagged, ruptured sound that doesn't even try to contain the edge of hysteria. _How_? How can Sam sound so _calm_ when the world is spinning out, fast and ugly and _wrong_ around them.

But the admonition deflates him, and he barely holds his footing, so little reason not to just collapse right there and never move again. His brain shuts down instead, surrounding him with an emptiness born of necessity, and he moves for the car in jerking, mechanical steps. There's a sun-warmed bottle of water in the back seat that he can use to rinse the burn of stomach acid from his mouth, and then. Then…

Then Dean doesn't even know.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After Dean storms his way back to the car, Sam climbs into the passenger seat without prompting, voice stuck silent. Dean makes a wide turn around the clearing and drives back the way they came. It occurs to Sam only belatedly that they could've just ditched the trailer.

Too late now. No stopping once they're moving, not if the brittle set to Dean's jaw is any indicator. The road jostles and jolts them along just like the trip in, and he's still stuck in a moment that burns with shame. They're hours away from _anywhere_ , and the drive back to civilization is going to be, maybe already _is_ , silent digging agony.

Sam is starting to feel it now, the numbness of shock leaking away to make room for other things. He can't tell what's going on in Dean's head. His brother's eyes are a deliberate blank, face set in a mask so tight that Sam knows from long experience it can't be broken. Dean won't even look at him, but Sam can't tear his eyes away, and the tension stretches impossible between them.

Guilt is the first thing to assert itself once the shame has had time to set his cheeks hot and flushed. Guilt, because how could they not have known? How could they've not instinctively felt the magnitude of the lines they were crossing?

Worse, how could they have been so careless when they _didn't_ know? Except he's already got the answer to that one. He just _wanted_. So badly, desperately, and apparently even a Dean with no memory couldn't tell him no. This is on Sam, and he knows it. He's the one with the freakass powers that left him something to work with, and he's got no excuse for not figuring it out. He should've seen it, felt it, known what he was doing. He should've been able to tell it was all wrong, and now things are jacked, maybe beyond repair.

The air in the car is just this side of explosive as the highway passes them by. It's the fastest they've been able to drive in more than a week, now that they're free of their disastrous passenger. Sam wants to say something, but knows that words will just tangle things worse. His eyes skitter across the dash, slide back to rest on Dean's hands and their white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

God damnit, but he knows what Dean _tastes_ like, can still see the mark he left so deliberately on that long stretch of throat, and now his brother won't even look at him. He chews his lip in helpless frustration and stares at nothing, trees flying past on the side of the road. Nothing to do but wait and see if there's anything to be salvaged.

Sam settles silently against the window and desperately hopes there is.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A week and a half later, Dean still can't breathe. Or that's what it feels like through the persisting, nauseous panic in his blood. Since getting their memories back they've taken out a monster _truck_ of all things, and reuniting with Cassie was about the most awkward experience since sleeping with his _brother_. He and Sam have so far failed at pretending nothing has changed. The constant failure doesn't stop them trying, but Dean can't deny the terror that's still spinning his thoughts every second of the day.

Amongst the maelstrom, he can't stop thinking about his father. The disgust he knows he'll see in disappointed eyes if Dad ever finds out, if they ever _find_ the man. But it's nothing next to the knots that twist his stomach or the memory itself. The guilt and shame and something worse at knowing the feel of Sam's hands and mouth on him, Sam _inside_ him, and there's nothing that can burn the knowledge away now that he has it.

He shouldn't be surprised when Sam finally corners him with, "We need to talk."

He shouldn't be, but he still _is_ , and it's self defense to say, "The hell we do." Turning his back only buys him seconds before Sam grabs and spins him, gives a shove that forces him to sit on the edge of the nearest bed. Dean watches with wary eyes as Sam perches on a rickety swivel chair and meets his stare head-on.

Dean considers possible avenues for avoiding this discussion, and there aren't any. They're in a hotel room like any other, pistachio green wallpaper and faded lampshades. Nowhere to escape to but the diner down the street, because this town is so small it's only _got_ three restaurants, two of them already closed for the night.

Dean wants to talk about this just about as badly as he wants something sharp to stab him in the eye, but he knows protest will do jack-all to dissuade Sam. His brother is wearing that _look_ , the distinctive clench of his jaw that says Dean just might get a fist to the face if he tries to leave. Dean would try anyway, but Sam always wins when he gets that look, and a guy eventually gets sick of fighting the inevitable.

They sit in taut silence through an uncomfortable drag of minutes, both gauging and weighing and Dean refuses to be the first to speak. If Sam wants to find out the hard way that talking shit out won't help, then fine. Dean doesn't have to make it easy on him.

"This is starting to get ridiculous," Sam finally says, leaning forward on his knees and clasping his hands tight enough to drive the blood from his fingers. "What do we have to do to get past this, Dean?"

"Nothing to get past." Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He knows the assertion won't take, but he also knows he has to try. "We weren't ourselves, so it doesn't count. Just have to keep hunting things and doing what we're doing." Because _time_ is all Dean can think of. Time enough for the memories to fade, so he can lock it all away and melt the key into nothing. Words can't fix this.

But Sam still shakes his head, stubborn and predictable. "You know that's bullshit. That's what we've _been_ doing, and things keep getting worse instead of better."

"That's not--"

"You won't even touch me to pass the keys," Sam cuts him off. "You haven't said two words in the past week that weren't case related or pulled out under protest, and you still won't _look_ at me, Dean."

Dean knows it will look like surrender, but he drops his eyes anyway. The carpet is mottled brown between his feet, blurring stubbornly as his eyes refuse to focus.

"I don't know what you want me to say here, Sammy," he mutters, and he feels something inside him crack even though his voice holds steady.

" _Anything_. Anything that's not bullshit, because this whole willfully ignoring and moving on thing? It's not working."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to _do_?" Dean demands, suddenly furious. The deep down _something_ cracks a little bit further, creeps like panic into his voice when he says, "I fucked up, Sammy. And I don't know how to fix it."

His head is buried in his hands now, and he's not sure how it got there but he's grateful not to be looking at Sam. Especially a second later when Sam's voice slides into furious disbelief and he says, " _You_ fucked up? Hate to break the news, dude, but you can't _make_ that mistake on your own."

Dean flinches away from the words, feels them like a physical blow, and suddenly he's up and pacing. His stride is fast, back and forth and back again as his eyes dodge around the room, anywhere but Sam still sitting motionless in the corner.

"It was such a _stupid mistake_ ," he hisses, scrubbing at his face with one hand and feeling the stubble scrape at his palm.

"I know," Sam says, too quiet, and it does nothing to calm the manic march in Dean's blood.

"We _knew_ it was stupid. We knew it, Sam."

The words feel like gibberish, spill out of him like chaos, and Sam still sounds so quiet and calm when he answers, "You're right."

"God, Sam, how could we have… it's not like we'd ever _thought_ about it before."

Here is where Sam's next infuriatingly calm response fits, and Dean waits on it like hearing Sam agree will actually make a difference.

Except the agreement doesn't come, just a drawn out silence that sets Dean's skin tingling with apprehension. He repeats the words, feels them thick on his tongue. "We never thought about it before. Sam?" But the silence persists, and the last thing he wants to do is turn around.

When he finally does, the look on Sam's face is defiant, no mistaking the meaning behind his hard-set jaw.

"No," Dean says. "No way. Sam, you didn't--"

"I _did_ , Dean." Sam's voice is firm with challenge. "I thought about fucking you."

"That's not goddamn funny." Denial sings in his blood and leaves him grasping for words. "Sam, you can't tell me you wanted that. I would've _noticed_."

Sam stands and shrugs, nonchalance so phony it hurts, and says, "You're right, it wasn't on my actual list of things to do. But yeah, I thought about it. So if you're gonna freak at me, you might want to get on that."

Sam is five feet away, still too close, and Dean feels the fight evaporate out of him in an unexpected instant. After the last two weeks he doesn't have the energy to freak out at Sam about imaginary transgressions. That and the absurdity hold him back, the hypocrisy of begging his brother to fuck him, memories or no, and then turning around and getting mad that Sam has had _thoughts_.

He's not _that_ broken in the head, so he slumps against the wall in defeat.

"I can't do this right now," he says, trampled resignation in his voice.

"You've got every right to be pissed," says Sam. Dean takes in the braced expression, the tense hunching of shoulders, the expectant fear in green eyes, and he shakes his head.

"No," he says, and means it. "I don't."

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They didn't talk so much _through_ it as _around_ it, but watching Dean leave the room, Sam thinks maybe they'll be okay. Purge the wound, clean it out, nothing like snarling and pacing and saying unfixable shit out loud to jumpstart the Winchester healing. Maybe it's enough.

Sam still can't believe Dean didn't explode at his confession, and he counts his blessings and doesn’t follow Dean to the diner down the block.

But his hope turns out to be fruitless, as a week later Dean still isn't touching, talking, _looking_ at him. It's different now, worse than before, and Sam wishes he could be surprised his plan backfired. Any unexpected contact sends Dean flinching away, and if Sam broadcasts the gesture early enough to give warning all he gets for his trouble is a dissuading glare. The mire is still deep around them, and Sam doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do.

Talking didn't help the first time, but he's got no plan and no better ideas. A parking lot sure as hell isn't ideal, especially one so brightly lit and public. But starting this conversation isn't quite intentional, and Sam doesn't expect Dean to do anything but storm off.

"I told you, man, you've got every right to be pissed."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean is still moving for the car.

"Dean, please, I know you don't--"

"You don't know jack _shit_ , Sammy."

"I know it makes you uncomfortable. And it should, and I'm _sorry_ , but--"

"Shut _up_!" Dean yells, stopping and spinning and glaring him down hard. "Let it go while we can. Please."

"But it's not _working_." Sam can feel his own voice rising, feel the frantic plea thick in his throat. "Everything is still just as jacked as before, and I don't know what to _do_ , Dean."

"Christ, just let it _go_. Why is that so goddamn impossible?"

"Because I can tell something is driving you nuts, and I want to help!" Sam feels his ears turning red, frustration lodging in his throat as the sun beats down on his back.

"I don't want help, I just want to _stop_." Sam can hear matching frustration in Dean's voice, an edge of panic that just sets him more determined.

"Stop what?" he asks without dropping a beat.

" _Thinking_ about it!" Dean shouts, but the next second the fury is wiped clean by wide, startled eyes that read of fear.

"Thinking about what, Dean?" Sam asks, voice dropping soft as he steps closer than he probably should.

"You goddamn know what." Dean is meeting him head-on, eyes reluctant but steady. Something not quite rage still burns behind Dean's eyes, his face hardening into deliberate silence, and he refuses to say anything more. He's about to turn and storm off, intent obvious.

Sam doesn't give him that chance, not another split second to maneuver before he closes the space between them completely. Dean is rage melting to passion against him, too startled by Sam's kiss to protest the slick of tongue past surprised lips.

Sam's hands want to explore, but he holds them steady. One slips to Dean's jaw, coaxing him to an angle that allows for deeper, better, more as his thumb shifts along his brother's cheekbone. The other settles at the small of Dean's back, holding him close and possessive.

He nearly breaks the kiss to crow in victory when Dean's hands grab at his shirt and Dean's tongue finally slides against his own. The intensity of so much touch might burn them alive, Dean's body pressing in hot and perfect, and Sam groans into his brother's mouth.

The sound must break the spell, because Dean goes suddenly rigid in his arms. Sam has just enough smarts to draw back from the kiss, and he puts a foot of pavement between them, withdraws his hands entirely.

Dean's eyes are wide and freaked. It's about what Sam expects, but he still doesn't see the punch coming. It catches him so off guard he doesn't even twitch to block it, and he watches from the ground, with pebbles and pavement digging into his palms, as Dean climbs into the car and guns the engine. Peels out of the parking lot, and Sam just lets him go.

It's three days Dean stays gone, long enough for the new bruise to look pretty impressive across Sam's cheek. He could be pissed at the persisting absence, leaves three voicemails the morning after his brother takes off, but his calls don't go ignored.

Dean responds, if only to text him back with two words that sum everything up, perfect and concise. "Fuck off." After that, Sam has to admit that he's still freaked, but at least he's not worried his brother is in actual trouble.

When Dean comes back, they don't talk about it, and Sam is just about ready for the world to implode.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The thing about incest, and Dean is still cringing at the word like its sting is new; the thing about incest is it's not a genie you can put back in the bottle. There are thoughts you can't unrealize, memories you can't just decide to un-experience, knowledge you can't simply unlearn.

The following weeks of guarding his space, thinking hard, and _not_ kissing Sam do nothing to temper the want that's been creeping up on him, sure and stubborn. It's easily as bad now as it was in the throes of amnesiac oblivion, and Dean thinks he might go out of his mind with trying to resolve the impossible. Sam is his brother. His baby brother who he carried from the goddamn fire, who's been his best and heaviest responsibility ever since. But Sam is beautiful, and Dean wants things from him that don't fit with all that.

Sam is also miserable, which leaves Dean's protective instincts tailspinning with the need to fix it. He takes the subtle cues and keeps his distance when Sam wants time alone. Times like now, his brother stealing the car keys and mumbling something about the county fair they saw on the edge of town. The hint might be subtle if it weren't for the hunched tension in Sam's shoulders, but the body language conveys the message with painful clarity. Sam doesn't really give a shit about some fair they passed on their way in from the highway, and Dean isn't invited.

"Don't park her in the mud," Dean says, and then Sam is gone.

The real problem is that Sam could be miserable for any number of reasons, most of them not conducive to the thoughts setting up residence in Dean's skull. Not that he's seriously entertaining those thoughts, because he isn't. Not really. Not anywhere but the secret, idle recesses of his mind, and that doesn't count unless he says so.

But Sam kissed him. It complicates things, because it means there's a chance, miniscule and hopeful and Dean is _not_ thinking about it, but a chance that Sam's sour mood is because of Dean's rejection. They haven't talked about it since that kiss-punch combo in the parking lot, and it's possible Sam meant it, still does, and is busy wallowing in a broken heart straight out of some sappy romance novel.

Possible doesn't mean likely, though, and it's a hell of a lot more realistic to figure Sam is pissed at him for taking so long to get over it. Maybe cranky about the kiss itself, or even upset that Dean still won't talk it all to death with him. Dean can't fathom where Sam got the idea that talking ever does anything but make nasty situations nastier, but he wouldn't put it past his brother to still be irked about _that_.

Somewhere in the midst of reworking all the reasons for Sam's current upset, Dean has something like an epiphany. It starts as a quiet wish, useless and wistful and thinking it would be perfect if Sam _were_ pining after him. Then Dean could swoop in, all hero-of-the-story, and maybe they could do this after all.

And probability or not, the thought lodges bright and stubborn, and Dean can't let it go. It burns closer to pain than hope, because Dean has always been a realist, but as the sharp edges fade he's left with a clarity so intense it takes his breath away. It feels like that stupid moment at the end of 'When Harry Met Sally', which Dean only watched because he was getting laid after, and suddenly the thoughts aren't idle anymore. Nowhere near it. Dean still doesn't know where his brother's head is at, but suddenly he needs to find out.

 

The fair is forty minutes away at a brisk jog, but Dean's pride keeps him from calling a cab. When he sneaks his way in past the gaudy front gate, the sun is setting and most of the crowds are clearing out. He finds Sam carrying a half-eaten bag of cotton candy, bright pink and hard to imagine his brother actually putting in his mouth. Dean _loves_ candy, and he won't touch the stuff.

Sam has spotted him by the time Dean stops contemplating the spun sugar and raises his eyes. He wishes he could decipher the look they exchange, but he can't even start. It scares the hell out of him, and he holds his breath until Sam offers a tiny, tentative smile and approaches.

"Cotton candy?" Sam offers, holding the bag out.

"Hell no." Dean cringes his disapproval and then, even though it's stupid, says, "We need to talk."

Sam's eyes are half-lidded and on careful guard, but he tosses the bag in a nearby trash bin.

"Quieter away from the rides," he says, gesturing off in the distance. "Come on."

Dean hadn't really noticed the noise before, too focused, but now that Sam has pointed it out he's suddenly inundated with carnival sounds. Tinny music, laughter, the creak and rush of metal twisting through the air. He falls into step without protest when Sam moves away from it and into the spreading twilight. There are acres of grass beyond the muddy paths of the fair grounds, and Dean follows until Sam decides they've put the cacophony at a sufficient distance.

He can still hear the chaos from here, but he can also hear crickets in the tall grass. His brother's eyes are on him, cautious but expectant.

"So?" Sam asks, and Dean suddenly doesn't know what to say. More information is what he needs, and why the hell did he think walking into this blind was a good idea?

"So," he says, tries to sound confident. "I need to know what you're thinking."

"You'll have to be more specific, dude." There's no trace of sarcasm in his voice, but Dean knows it's there just the same, and his eyes narrow at the challenge.

"About _us_ , jackass," he says, and isn't this conversation just the most romantic he's ever had? "All this. The whole… I need to know where you're head's at, man."

Sam drops the oblivious mask, but it doesn't offer much new advantage as his face goes carefully neutral. No help whatsoever, especially when he says nothing into the space left by the question. Dean figures out finally that it's still his turn, and he takes a moment for a bracing swallow before he can say what he needs to.

"You kissed me."

"And you punched me in the face for it." Sam's tone is free of accusation, Sam's hand reaching to touch his bruise just an unconscious instinct, but Dean still flinches.

"I know. And I'm sorry. But I still need to know what you're thinking."

"Why?"

It's a moment for truth, or something like it, and Dean draws in a steadying breath to say, "Because I'm having enough trouble sorting this mess in my own head without trying to figure yours out, too. I need more to go on here."

It's a long, quiet moment, filled with crickets and distant laughing screams, but Dean holds his stubborn silence until Sam finally speaks.

"I told you I'd thought about it before."

It's a start. Anteing up to match Dean's not-quite-a-confession, but it doesn't _help_. It's not new information.

"Yeah," says Dean. "But thinking and doing are pretty different, and you also said I wasn't on your To Do list."

"That was before. You never asked about now." And maybe Dean's expression is giving him away, or his line of questioning is doing it, because suddenly Sam's answer is open and honest. Cryptic, but honest, and a heat that's almost familiar reflects in his eyes.

"You're my brother." Dean has to say it. Has to and hates himself for it, but Sam steps closer as if the words are a challenge.

"Yeah," he prompts.

"I don't want to lose you, Sammy," Dean whispers, and where did _that_ come from?

"You won't," says Sam, confident reassurance in his voice. "I'm not leaving again. Not if we do this." It's not a threat or an ultimatum, Dean can read that much in his brother's eyes. It's a promise.

"What about Dad?" he asks, because he has to.

"We'll be careful. He doesn't have to know."

The silence that settles in this time is full of a different kind of tension. Like gravity pulling them closer, like a flavor of inevitability, like everything Dean never knew he needed.

When Sam kisses him this time, Dean's got no urge to punch him in the face. It's perfect and awkward, new and eager as he pulls Sam closer. Just a small twitch of not quite pain when he thinks the word 'brother', and maybe with time he can learn to ignore it completely.

The purples and indigos of sunset have faded to night, and the sky is quiet around them. Crickets still clash with the softly distant echoes of the fair. The air is chill and crisp, and Dean shivers from the cold or the contact, not sure which.

Sam's hand is suddenly warm against his stomach, scorching through the thin fabric of Dean's t-shirt as he draws back to ask, "Is this okay?"

Dean doesn't have a voice or words to answer, so he drags Sam close again, just a hug this time, and buries his face against the warm skin of his brother's throat. He hopes Sam gets it, reassured when strong arms slip up and around him to hold just as close. Dean is cold from the new night chill, burning up where their bodies touch, and he's pretty sure he never wants to move again.

"Come on," Sam suddenly breaks away. Takes Dean's hand and pulls him back toward lights and screams and spinning metal. "Fair ends tomorrow. Let's ride the tilt-a-whirl before they close down."

The sudden transition is jarring, but Dean recovers fast and puts on his best leer. "I'd rather make out on the Ferris wheel."

"Maybe we'll have time for both if you get your ass in gear, come _on_."

It's not perfect. Dean is still a realist, and he knows this will be tough. It _has_ to be.

But he's also newly grateful to a mythical beast that stole their memories for two weeks, and _that's_ different. Gives him an odd sense of hope as Sam hands a wad of tickets over to the operator of a blue and red spinning ride. If he's gone from wanting to kill the son of a bitch to wondering what would make a good forest-warming gift for a unicorn, that's a good sign. Or a sign that he's finished his journey into insanity.

Either way, Sam smiles at him as the metal bar locks in over their laps. A gooey, happy smile that sends all the blood rushing to Dean's head and, yeah, he's grateful.

The ride starts spinning, Dean's stomach drops at the sudden momentum, and everything is good. As close to perfect as it can be, and Dean gives himself over to the thrill.

 

~*~*~fin~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> * The working name for this was "Unicorn Amnesia Crack". I kid you not. It got a bit more serious as the story progressed.
> 
> * This story would _not_ have been written if not for my lovelies: asfaloth_, rejeneration and caimenae. I mean this literally. It was an entertaining thought that I tucked away in a text document amongst the dozens of other fics I never planned to follow through on. It just seemed like too ridiculous a concept, I couldn't imagine anyone else would want to read the crack that had briefly consumed my brain. But then I admitted the idea to others, and it is all their fault. Not mine. Seriously.
> 
> * Also? This entire concept was born of the line "So this is, what, some kind of family business?" I _love_ playing around with fandom crack clichés (you might've noticed), and _that line_ attacked me out of nowhere while I was pondering amnesia fic. It was, perhaps, entirely inevitable.
> 
> * The title to this story was nearly "Look and See Her, How She Sparkles." No, seriously. Because "The Last Unicorn" was my favorite movie of all time as a child (and still holds an enormous piece of my heart). Hey, it was at least half a step up from "Unicorn Amnesia Crack", yes/yes?.


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